


Youth and Beauty Brigade

by FugalGear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Drug Use, Multi, probably more ships later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FugalGear/pseuds/FugalGear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wanted nothing more to be alone, left to his own devices, left to his mind. Other people buzz around him like static-- People like the righteous, altruistic John, or the shy and bumbling Molly, or Greg, captain of the rugby team and good-guy extraordinaire. People like the reserved and generally avoided Moran, or the mysterious and manipulative Moriarty, or Irene, in the center of the spotlight. </p><p>They orbit around him, and he holds them together with his indifference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> I'm American and this hasn't been britpicked. I'm not terribly familiar with the British school system, so forgive me for any mistakes.

“Hold on.”

Sherlock Holmes drummed an anxious foot, watching as his dealer drew his phone from the breast pocket of his leather jacket. They stood in the southernmost corner of their school’s main courtyard, a wide expanse of concrete and awkward landscaping. His eyes narrowed sharply on the device as the older boy tapped out a message.

“Texting Jim?” inquired Sherlock, impatience bleeding into his testy tone. Moriarty’s lackey could not go a single minute without consulting him, it seemed.

Sebastian Moran looked up from his phone.“ It—“ he blinked—“don’t look at me like that, punk—“ Holmes was the kind of prat he’d love to punch in the face if he weren’t such a reliable customer. He was always so damn full of himself. It got on his nerves. “I’m just checking to see if we can hook you up tomorrow, you know. Like you wanted.” Moran cocked an eyebrow at him. His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it. “Which we can.”

"Delightful,” deadpanned Sherlock, even though he was honestly looking forward to the high cocaine would bring him. Tension was running high in his synapses, the mazes he navigated in order to solve problems had a tricky number of dead ends. His frustration often made him anxious and jittery, and the heightened mental alertness would help to smooth out the kinks. Sherlock fished around in his jeans, retrieving his bi-fold wallet. It was better get this over with, lest a teacher spot them. He peered dismally into his wallet—his funds were pitifully low, which meant he would have to find a way to get more money. Likely from Mycroft, he noted. Moran palmed a bag into his hand and accepted the bills, tucking them away neatly.

“See you later, Holmes,” he said, voice gruff but clear. The boys parted ways in opposite directions, and Sherlock began the trek from the corner of the courtyard to his homeroom. As much as he was itching for it, John would not appreciate it if he showed up to first period stoned. Again. He would save his acquisition for later. 

The hallway bustled with his classmates, a buzzing congregation of students chatting idly at their lockers. The only people who paid him any attention were those who felt scorned by his deductions. He felt their loathing stares prick at the back of his neck, radiating with malice and contempt. He ruined personal relationships and ousted secrets, and he saw their heads turn in his peripheral vision. It was of no consequence to him. Approval or validation from his peers was never something he desired, and frankly he didn’t give a damn if he hurt their trite little feelings. As he turned the corner a conservative looking underclassman stared uncomfortably at his gauges. 

The bold body modifications were product of a snide remark from his older brother. ‘If you’re going to act like a delinquent, you may as well look like one,’ Mycroft had sneered. His parents hated him for it, but they couldn’t stand him anyway, so Sherlock figured there was no real loss there. They should be thankful that he didn’t look like Moran, at least. The older boy’s eyebrow ring was insignificant compared to the tribal tiger prowling on his forearm, a sprawling black tattoo that made his hulking frame appear even more ominous. The large plugs in Sherlock’s lobes were borne out of contempt for his family, not from want of aesthetic appeal.

Sherlock soon arrived in his natural science class, where John was already seated, dutifully looking over his notes. Dull, hard-working John. Sherlock took the seat beside him, dropping his bag onto the large, single lab table. John glanced up before returning to his notes, scribbling something in the page margin before pausing, biting his lip. 

“I saw you hanging around the courtyard.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, restraining an exasperated sigh. “Plenty of people hang out in the courtyard before classes.”

John’s grip tightened around his pen, and he leaned back to appraise his friend with a pointed expression. “You were waiting for Sebastian, weren’t you?” he accused.

Sherlock stared coolly at his book bag. “What’s it to you?” he retorted, despite knowing full well the answer to his question. John was a loyal friend, and coupled with his unyielding do-the-right-thing attitude, someone who cared a great deal about his well-being. Sherlock turned his head, just in time to catch the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of John’s mouth—the only sign on the boy’s stoic face that he was perturbed by the question. 

“Don’t look so weary, John,” he said before the boy could speak. “Your current look of distrust is quite insulting. If you would have been so inclined to note the day of the week, you wouldn’t be making that face. I am only in possession of a few grams of marijuana.”

John nodded in relief, his suspicion that Sherlock was resuming his use of more potent drugs was assuaged. He still wasn’t very happy, and the tension in his shoulders did not fully dissipate, but even he had to admit that there were worse things that Sherlock could be doing. Today was Thursday, and the day that Sherlock’s counselor was to visit his him. John felt that it was hardly necessary, however if the youth was under the influence, his family, for good measure, gave Sherlock a wide berth. It negated any confrontation with his therapist.

Even so, something twinged in John’s chest to see Sherlock shy away from human companionship in favor of his beloved ‘distractions.’ He really could not bring himself to dissent anymore, to scold his friend and attempt to get him to change. Sherlock was stubborn and it simply could not be done, so John, too scared to eschew his friend, relegated himself to the sidelines.

“When was the last time you met with Dr Mendali?”

“Hmm. Last month. He seemed to decide that I needed to find meaning in my life, to which I responded in a decidingly existential way. He suggested I do some soul searching, I pointed out his daughter’s eating-disorder, as well as his own erectile dysfunction. He almost stormed out, ready to hang up the towel, which of course, I wouldn’t mind, but I did remind Dr Mendali that my parents pay him far too much for him to quit.” The warning bell rang, and more of their classmates filed in, shuffling into their seats.

“You’re a right arse,” admonished John with a chuckle. Sherlock donned a thoughtful expression.

“I’d say that’s debatable, but there is at least a modicum of truth in that statement.” John rolled his eyes. “Prat.”

X X X

Molly Hooper was a grade-A student. While she was far from the valedictorian, the girl prided herself on her honest effort and ability to bring home a picture-perfect report card. Work was all she had, really, and while sometimes Molly reflected on the fact and thought herself a little sad, she was thankful to busy herself and be productive. 

After school she worked at an old-fashion burger joint, the sort that served milkshakes to customers sitting on stools at a counter. Tugging on her apron, Molly couldn’t help but curtsy daintily with a quiet giggle. Her work uniform was a dress that made her look as if she’d stepped straight out of the 50s, and knowing how cute she looked in it bolstered her self-confidence, even as she bussed tables. The knowledge that the uniform was flattering on her was not strong enough to support that self-confidence around her peers, however. The restaurant was a popular venue for her classmates after classes were out for the day. Waitressing or working the register for her peers was humiliating and for the shy teenager, utterly nerve-wracking. This particular day she was on waitress duty, and she thanked her lucky stars when she approached her table and saw who her customers were.

“Hi guys,” she greeted cheerfully with a meek smile, her head lowered, forgoing the traditional introduction.

Greg looked up, having been hunched over and conspiratorially whispering with John. She had European History with the both of them. “I didn’t know you worked here!” 

Molly opened her mouth to reply, however John cut in. “She works every day, don’t you?”

Molly nodded, shuffling a bit awkwardly as she wracked her brain on the formula for small talk. Should she mention how her job was going, or how tired she was? Ask Greg about his sport practice? Ask John about Sherlock? Molly stiffened at the last thought. Definitely don’t ask John about Sherlock. So, instead of trying to initiate small talk, Molly inadvertently made a distressed noise and fumbled with the menus. John ordered a burger and fries, Greg ordered a banana split. She jotted down the information in her pad, briefly wondering what Sherlock would have ordered had he accompanied his friends after school. The boy had much better things to do in the afternoon, of course. The last time she had asked John about it, he claimed that Sherlock was about making a personal census of the homeless within a ten-mile radius. She had no idea what he meant to do with that information, but while she was smart, Molly was far from a genius. Sherlock obviously had some brilliant reason. 

She collected the menus with a closed smile and went to drop of the ticket. She remembered how John and Sherlock used to be attached at the hip, and they were still each other’s closest friends. John and herself were friendly as well—he even took her to the formal dance a few years ago. Certainly she wouldn’t be overstepping any lines in asking about him. But John knew she liked the tall, pale boy, and he always sugar-coated things for her. She knew about Sherlock’s forays into the seedier parts of town, she’d seen him conferring with Sebastian—and Sebastian was bad news. John didn’t have to protect her, but she still saw where he was coming from. If Sherlock cared for anybody, it certainly wasn’t for her. Molly deviated from being safe in the knowledge that Sherlock would always choose an experiment or meddling in police business over her, or being upset and wondering why she wasn’t ever good enough. Either way, her pining was most definitely one-sided.

Why couldn’t she have a crush on someone normal and nice and actually likeable, like Greg? Greg was assigned to monitor the school’s campus and halls during the many free periods he had. It wasn’t a job many desired, so the boy was happy to sign up and get an entire credit for it. With no disciplinary action and decent grades, Gregory qualified. Why couldn’t Molly be attracted to him, when at least he’d give her the time of day? She gave a flustered sigh and grabbed a tray. At least she had a good enough life that getting a boy to notice her was Molly's only complaint.

X X X

I’m coming home this weekend. –MH

Good to know. –SH

How’s Mummy? Or you for that matter? –MH

Mummy teeters between convincingly normal and extremely neurotic. As for me, I’m peachy. –SH

Are you getting by okay? What about school? –MH

I’m managing. –SH

Define ‘managing.’ –MH

You’re perfectly aware of what I meant. –SH

That I am. See you Saturday afternoon? –MH

[no reply].

I love you, little brother. -MH

[no reply].


	2. Late

If there was ever a time that Molly felt inadequate, it was her lunch period. Half of the school was scattered about the cafeteria, and as she walked from the lunch counter (with great caution, lest she trip and wear her meatball sub again-- the thought was absolutely terrifying) to her table, snippets of various conversations resounded around her. Nothing important, not even full sentences, but the laughter and the enthusiasm of students relating their day to their friends only reminded Molly of what she did not have—friendship. The girl had no one to chatter gossip with, and walking by all of her peers in the large room made her long to do so, even if she thought exchanging snide remarks was a bit childish.

The mousy girl had the pervading sense that bad luck had it in for her. This wasn’t to say that good things did not happen to Molly Hooper—she had already won several awards for involvement in various academic clubs and even had a scholarship to her university of choice in the bag-- but the timid teenager always seemed to get the short end of the social stick.

Year eight was by far the worst, as it was the only time she was actually bullied. Prepubescent years were generally awkward and frightening, and Molly's classmates were content to snuff out any of the self-esteem she would occasionally muster up.

Now, she knew of course that these were the petty antics of thirteen-year-olds. Having her papers ripped, being laughed at, the unfortunate victim of a stray foot that happened to topple her down the stairs, papers askew, they were all her classmates' coping mechanisms for the changing world around them-- surely. Molly could not bear them any ill will, not even if she wanted to. The young girl would open her Emily Bronte novel and pretend she didn't think herself pathetic for sitting by herself in the cafeteria. 

Molly didn't sit alone in the present, thankfully. Sliding into her seat opposite of Irene, Molly greeted the dark-haired girl, flanked by Jessica and Ryan, and sitting beside Abby. They were all Irene's friends, of course, and Molly had the sense that they only tolerated her presence. No one ever honestly spoke to her, anyway.

Irene. She was gorgeous-- skinny around the waist with little fat to spare anywhere else-- unlike Molly, whose features did not have any definition in her normal weight. Thick hair that gleamed and shined, poised elegantly on her chair as she nibbled on a French fry.

When Molly was younger, she often daydreamed about the kind of person she could be. Charming and well-liked and not a bookish pushover who let herself get trampled on. Irene was these things, and Molly truly looked up to her for it.

The petite girl was picking quietly at a container of green beans when the sultry tone of Irene's voice graced her ears.

"Molly, dear. I just had a wonderful idea. How about we give you a makeover?"

She felt several pairs of eyes turn to scrutinize her, everyone at the table appraising Molly and considering Irene's suggestion. Shuffling uncomfortably in her seat, a wave of self-consciousness flushed over Molly. She wore a cream-colored cardigan and her long brown hair fell in long, simple plaits over each shoulder. Overgrown bangs fell into her glasses. Hums of agreement sounded from the table, and Irene clapped her hands.

"We can take you shopping. Tomorrow."

Flustered and embarrassed, Molly stumbled over her tongue before forming a coherent response. "I work tomorrow, that won't do. I'm terribly sorry-- I'm -- I'm free on Saturday," she managed. Irene looked absolutely ecstatic. They agreed to text each other to plan the important details, like when and where.

Thankfully, the table moved on to discuss other topics, and while she was not terribly interested in Ryan's camping adventure (being retold for the third time, that makes it) or Abby's sick cat, Molly was glad that she was no longer the center of attention. Her apprehension for the weekend was now running strong, however she trusted Irene to know what she was doing and felt comfortable in her judgment. Besides, Molly stayed inside whenever she wasn't scheduled at work. It would be a welcomed change of pace to get out of the house.

XXX

"You're home late."

Sebastian turned from where he'd hung up his coat. It was five o'clock, and he was just now returning from scouting out vantage points with Jim. The younger teen had somehow acquired the explosive materials necessary to make several powerful bombs. Sebastian had been hesitant about the plan at first, but of course his long list of negative consequences and reasons why it was morally irresponsible to bomb a nursing home didn’t scathe Jim in the slightest.

They had taken a bus to the part of town where the facility was located. Jim wanted to scope everything out himself, despite Sebastian already having done so. The smaller boy dragged him along anyway, bouncing about as he jotted down notes in the yellow pages of his stenographer's notebook.

Sebastian looked over at his father, tall but lean, all bones and scruffiness, while he toed off his shoes. "Yeah, I am. Sorry. Had a run into town with a mate to help him pick out what suit to wear to a wedding," he offered, having already prepared the excuse. His father donned a skeptical look but turned back to the coffee table, fiddling with a small device and an even smaller screwdriver. 

The corner of Sebastian's mouth twisted up in victory, although it was a bit bittersweet. His father had given up on him to the point of accepting any excuse, no longer wanting to hear the truth. He knew he disappointed his father, had let him down. Sebastian still felt bad about it form time-to-time.

As he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, Sebastian reflected on the fact. Ever since he had gotten in with Jim, he was fairly well behaved. Sebastian did the jobs relegated to him by the younger boy, and it kept him busy. While his activities were far more clear about which side of the law they were on, it was a far cry from the constant fights the teen would get himself into. Staying out late and drinking, he was stupid and angry and rash.

He had the feeling that most people still regarded him that way, if anything it was rather obvious. He was avoided like the plague at school, and when people talked to Sebastian it was with averted eyes and stumbling mouths. Being left alone was fine by him-- Sebastian would rather have his own company before anyone else's. The way his classmates all seemed to think that he was some kind of common thug was extremely annoying. He and Jim had blackmailed the mayor, for Christ's sake. The man was basically in their pockets. It was a shame no one knew about it, really. Sebastian was far from an idiot; he had simply been a little-- misguided before. It still ticked him off that the only people who gave him a sincere, friendly 'hello' were his customers.

Depositing his book bag on the plush carpet, Sebastian reached into his pocket and retrieved a pack of smokes. Falling onto his bed with a bounce, he positioned a cigarette between his lips, inhaling fervently as he lit it. Jim made his disgust of cigarette smoke abundantly clear. The boy would whine and complain about it, and if Sebastian did not extinguish it in a timely manner, Jim would snatch it from Sebastian's lips and put it out himself. On more than one occasion, the older teen was the ashtray.

Just as Sebastian started to relax, sinking back into the downy pillows, his phone, carelessly tossed on his bedside table, buzzed. A text message. Rolling onto his side, Sebastian snatched it up, unlocked it with its password, and opened the message.

I am positively quivering with excitement for all of this, aren't you? -JM

Sebastian rolled his eyes. Jim was a freak, no questions asked.

To blow up a bunch of old people? -SM

Of course, dear. Can you imagine all of the carnage? The building, windows blown out, surfaces torched black. Victims dead and injured, the news will eat it up. And oh, how devastated the families will be! I'm getting all flustered just thinking about it. -JM

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow, having donned an amused expression as he read the reply. Yes, definitely a freak. Somehow strangely adorable.

Calm down there, Jimmy. -SM

Don't tell me what to do-- in any case, you'll need to see Kalgan tomorrow morning, and pick up the new supply of cocaine. -JM

Gotcha. Remind me why I have to dole out the drugs at school again? You hire people to do it on the streets. -SM

You need something productive to do. The money funds our projects, dear. -JM

Correction: your projects. -SM

That hurts my feelings, Seb. I thought we were in this together~ -JM

You know what I meant. -SM

Are you going to eat dinner? -SM

Maybe. -JM

By 'maybe,' you mean, 'no.' -SM

What are you wearing? ;) -JM

Eat something, Jim. -SM

You're no fun. -JM

Fine. -JM

Come by my house as early as possible, by the way. you'll need plenty of time to prepare to rig the explosives. -JM

Will do. -SM

See you Saturday, Tiger. -JM

Sebastian tossed his phone carelessly onto the bedside table, rolling over onto his stomach with a groan. The fact that they were going to violently kill a group of elderly was raising conflict in himself that Sebastian was trying vehemently not to address. It was certainly wrong; the frightening part was that Sebastian felt only a slight conscious about it.

It certainly was not normal, but at least he wasn’t giggling about it like Jim. The younger boy wasn’t right in the head, and Sebastian supposed that neither was he. Jim got off on the plans coming together, while for Sebastian it was the thrill of the moment. Things that were far from socially acceptable, which was why he tried not to get too caught up in it. He’d done things for Jim that he wouldn’t tell a soul, and that he would do again in a heart-beat. Even so, a rational part of Sebastian rang warning bells, told him that he was playing very dangerous games, games that could not end well. Sebastian had to admit that two teenagers bribing small government officials and running scams just for the extra pocket money, well that was a bit ridiculous. Jim took most of the credit, however. The teen chuckled. Brains and brawn. They were a sort of classical criminal duo, weren’t they?

A curt knock on the bedroom door interrupted Sebastian from his train of thought. Flipping over, he sat up, legs crossed. “Yeah?”

The doorknob sifted and his father peeked his head in experimentally, brushing a rogue strand of hair from his glasses.

“I thought you’d like to see this prototype that I was working on,” explained Augustus Moran, sliding into his son’s bedroom. Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the object in his hands. “Fine, go ahead.”

He watched his father’s body language ease up, but honestly. It wasn’t like he was rude to the man or treated him poorly. God knew he didn’t need his own father pussyfooting around him, too.

“They’re wireless ear buds,” explained the man, holding them up. “They wrap firmly around the top of the ear, and the transmitter—“ he held up a small square—“plugs into the audio jack to your device.”

Sebastian reached out and grabbed the transmitter, scrutinizing it as he pinched it between his third and forefinger. “What happened to your automatic hair comb?”

The man made a face and averted his eyes. “There were a lot of, ah, bugs.”

The teenager chuckled at that. Bugs were right—the device was less likely to untangle your hair and more likely to annihilate your scalp.

“I was, I mean, I was really hoping that the firm will rehire me if I show them this,” confided Augustus, “since it’s more…practical. And it works! See?” taking back the small black box and reaching for Sebastian’s phone, Sebastian quickly snatched it from his bedside table. He hadn’t locked it, and the last thing the boy needed was his father looking through his phone, even if it was only to play music.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“What, I can’t see your mobile?”

“No, you can’t.”

Augustus exhaled with a huff, sitting on the edge of his son’s bed. “Sebastian,” he began with closed eyes, “I wish you wouldn’t be so secretive around me.”

Sebastian leaned back against his pillows with an exasperated nose.

“Dad, please don’t start this conversation,” 

“Well, I want to! I know things aren’t always great, and things can get a little hard without your mother, but I love you. And I try, I really do, Sebastian. I don’t know what exactly you do, but I know you sneak around. I don’t want you to get into more trouble. You’ve already been arrested. You never speak to me, and when you do you’re much too formal. You won’t even let me see your mobile! Just promise me that you’ll stay out of trouble, all right? I don’t want to have to worry about you. Will you promise?”

Sebastian, who was staring blankly at his toes, glanced up.

“Yeah, I promise.”

Augustus offered him a weak smile, and patted his leg. The man pushed himself from the bed with a grunt.

“I started dinner, I’ll call up when it’s done,” he said, adjusting his glasses, and with that he man left.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Sebastian rolled onto his side with a groan. He loved his father, sort of, but balancing his schedule and not raising suspicion with the man was challenging and not very effective. He certainly didn’t want to see his father hurt because of his actions. Closing his eyes, Sebastian elected to take a nap. He was dog-tired, and naps weren’t as complicated as interpersonal relationships.

He’d only gotten ten minutes of shut-eye before his phone beeped.

Get a lecture for being late? –JM

Not really. Probably worse. –SM

Poor Tiger~ -JM

Fuck off. –SM


	3. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, an update! Sorry if the scene with the explosives is inaccurate.

As much as she trusted Irene, Molly was truly beginning to regret the decision to accompany her friend to the mall. Racks upon racks of clothing stood in front of her, an endless combination of trendy (and expensive) outfits that she would no doubt spend most of the afternoon trying on. 

The timorous girl watched as Irene swiftly selected garments from the shelves and racks, trained eye scanning as she flipped through the hangers. “Irene,” squeaked Molly, as the girl added a slim dress to the pile accumulating in Molly’s arms. “I uh—can’t hold any more. Should we try these on?”

Irene sported a surprised smile as she turned to face Molly, before pushing her in the direction of the fitting rooms. “Of course, dear. Sorry about that, I do tend to get carried away. Now, let’s get you into those clothes.”

Standing alone in the stall, Molly listened to Irene through the door, as she was reminded of what articles of clothing went together. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror after successfully assembling the first outfit— a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and a black belt cinched around her waist. The flattering outfit assuaged some of her fears—Irene wasn’t just going to stick her into any old clothes, but rather outfits that fit her tastes as well as physical form. Molly slipped out of the fitting room, presenting herself before Irene. 

“See? I told you that you’d look fabulous. Put those in a separate pile so we can buy them. Turn every head at school, you will. Come on, back in. We’ll be here all day if it takes you that long to try things on.” 

Molly nodded and marched back into the stall, shedding herself of the blouse and following Irene’s instructions. Her friend’s praise tickled her pink—it wasn’t just her mother saying those things, it was Irene! Standing side-by-side with her in public, Molly felt more than insecure. Irene had showed up, equipped with a stylish handbag and not a hair out of place. It only served to make Molly feel rather frumpy in the large sweater she had sported that morning, even if it was comfortable. 

They only purchased a few things at that particular store, despite Irene’s insistence that Molly looked gorgeous in everything she tried on. Molly persisted that yes, the clothes were pretty, but she didn’t feel comfortable in some of the skimpier garments. 

After enjoying a Caesar salad around noon, Molly was whisked away to get a manicure. Never once in her life had she gotten her nails done by a professional, and once again her anxiety rushed in. Would they look tacky? No, Irene’s French nails looked nice, she’d get a French manicure. 

At the end of the day, Molly was immensely glad for Irene’s support and knowledge about fashion. Everywhere they went Irene assailed her with tips and tricks, spewing miscellaneous bits of knowledge at her as they scouted out accessories. She was also extremely glad that she’d never had any good reason to spend her paycheck up until now. Between jewelry, shoes, clothes, and even the trendy haircut she’d gotten, Molly had spent quite the pretty penny at Irene’s behest. It was worth it, knowing she’d fit in better with Irene and her friends if she looked the part. 

 

X X X

 

Sherlock sat idly at his desk, watching a beaker filled with clear liquid fizzle down. Dull. Chlorine was such a predictable chemical, when push came to shove. It didn’t help that for the entirety of the weekend he would have to be sociable, playing happy family now that Mycroft was due home. The teen dreaded confrontation of any sort, and conflicts were sure to abound between him, his older brother, and their mother. 

The gaunt boy glanced to the false drawer he had installed under his window sill. He had requested cocaine, and Moran was ever-such a reliable supplier. Sherlock planned on saving it for the evening, a sort of reward for having to put up with his ridiculously overbearing sibling. 

A commotion sounded downstairs, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil,” he mumbled, pushing the beaker stand to the corner of his desk. The Holmes residence was a quaint manor house, but for such an expensive home, the walls were surprisingly thin. Even upstairs, the sound of Mycroft kissing up to Mummy drifted into his room. Sighing, the boy pushed himself up from his desk—it was better to get this over with sooner or later. Perhaps cordially greeting his older brother would deter Mycroft from being a bothersome prat later. Sherlock highly doubted it. He leisurely made his way to the front room, where Mycroft stood, briefcase resting at his feet. 

“Hello, brother. Glad to see me?” Mycroft smiled, although Sherlock was certain that it was more akin to a leer. 

The lanky boy huffed. This was going to be a long weekend. 

 

X X X

 

Today was the day. Sebastian had risen at five o’clock, bleary-eyed and stumbling. It was a ridiculous time to get up, really, or at least for him. The teen considered brewing some tea, but decided against it. He didn’t want to risk his father hearing him patter around the kitchen. Sebastian put on the neatly pressed white polo that belonged to the staff at Rosenberg Manor, pulling a black hooded sweatshirt over it. 

Jim had helped him secure the small position at the nursing home, a job which he attended on the weekends in the morning. Sebastian replaced the garbage bins in each room, tidying things up, replacing sheets. Custodial duties that made him feel a bit like a maid, in all honesty. 

Sebastian began the walk up to the main street, where he usually caught a cab that took him into the part of town where the home was located. The only employees present in the morning when Sebastian began his shift were the caregivers that stayed overnight, and while they began their work at the same time, the residents of the manor were mostly asleep. 

He had gotten up so freakishly early to meet up with Jim, and together they would go into town. Over the weeks Sebastian had meticulously smuggled the explosives into Rosenberg Manor, stowing them away in utility and storage closets, hiding them in the rooms Jim had mapped out for him. Today he would rig them all up for detonation, as Jim had so carefully trained him to do. 

Turning the corner, Sebastian spotted the short Irish boy on the opposite corner at the end of the street. It was still dark on the residential street, however no one bounced around like that at five thirty in the goddamn morning. Sebastian rolled his eyes, the figure becoming larger as he closed the gap between them. 

“Aren’t you a ball of sunshine,” greeted Sebastian with a mumble, fishing in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. Jim turned, face scrunching as he watched the older boy light one. He opened his mouth as if to protest, however Sebastian cut him off. 

“Can it, Jim. You don’t want me getting the jitters later, do you?” He was going into this as clear-headed as possible, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes if his mind was elsewhere, pining for a cigarette. It was best to get his fix now, even if Jim would have his head for smoking around him. 

Surprisingly, the smaller teen obliged, nodding concedingly. “We should be on our way,” noted Jim, turning on his heel and walking up toward the main street where they got a cab. 

Even as they drove in silence, Jim still radiated anxious excitement. The nervous glances he was giving Sebastian were making the larger boy rather annoyed, however Jim was easily forgiven. Jim always did everything himself, likely because he felt the only one trustworthy enough to carry things out. Today, however, Jim had done all that he could do, and it was up to Sebastian to not only to correctly rig the explosives, but not to get caught, now or later. 

Sebastian understood why Jim was nervous, but he still knew what he was doing. Well, in theory. He had done a few mock runs with the materials, but never set anything off. He found himself contemplating how wrong their plan could actually go, and without realizing that he was doing so, Sebastian was lightly bouncing his knee. 

He noticed when Jim’s hand reached over to still it. As they made eye contact, Jim gave an assuring smile, patting the boy’s knee. 

“Easy there, sport. “

Sebastian glanced up with a guilty expression, before scooping up Jim’s hand and interlacing their fingers. Jim always scoffed at trite gestures such as hand-holding, however Sebastian needed the reassurance. 

He couldn’t make a mistake, not after all of the work they’d put into this. Not after all of Jim’s planning, everything the youth went through to obtain the expensive, illegally obtained explosives (and even Sebastian was barely told any details about that, only that he’d gotten them through a demolishing company.) Too many nights he had stayed up at Jim’s place, or Jim at his, meticulously plotting every miniscule detail. 

Why were they doing this in the first place? The crime seemed pointless. All of his and Jim’s efforts, and for what end result? They wouldn’t profit, not like they did from that insurance scam Jim cooked up. According to Jim, that was the point. Raising Rosenberg Manor to the ground was meaningless, but affected dozens and dozens of people. Jim was using it as a foundation, a stepping stone to things that mattered, to influence. 

The cab pulled up along the street to the park that Sebastian had scouted out a few days prior with Jim. Sebastian paid the fare and followed Jim to a small, metal bench. 

“Ah, perfect view,” he sighed, leaning back and crossing his legs. Standing, Sebastian admired it as well. The nursing home was two streets over, however a gap in the buildings on the opposite street revealed the facility. A safe, non-suspicious place for Jim to oversee the events. 

Jim motioned for Sebastian to sit, pulling out a few folded papers from his trouser pocket. Together they went over the blueprints one last time, and Jim quizzed Sebastian on the technical aspect of his task. Reviewing everything for the umpteenth time was rather tedious, and Sebastian was itching to just go in and get it over with. The time he was due to head in was approaching, and Sebastian felt himself becoming fidgety again. He stood, lighting another cigarette. 

Jim rose and delivered a chaste peck to Sebastian’s cheek, waving away the smoke with his hand. “Don’t disappoint me,” he sing-songed. Sebastian scowled and walked to work. 

The side door to the residential facility was unlocked every morning for employees such as himself. Sebastian entered, waving to Susan, who was already hard at work at her desk. Hanging up his hoodie on the coat rack, it was time to get to work. 

Managing the fuses was going to be the hardest part of his task, considering that they would have to be laid out in the open. The explosives were already stored in the rooms that Jim mapped out. Still, it seemed like an impossible mission. 

Slipping into the custodial closet, Sebastian moved aside several boxes to reveal what he would use for the detonator. A battery, which he would hook up to the lead line, which would ignite the primer charge within the blasting cap upon reaching the explosives. Sebastian set it up, now it only needed to be ignited. 

“Sebastian, is that you in there?” a woman’s voice sounded from outside of the closet. He stiffened in fear. “I’m a bit late to the staff meeting, but Mrs .Brighton is calling for water. Do you mind fetching it for her? Room 17.”

He agreed, peeking his head out of the small room to watch the woman head down to the meeting. Perfect. Everyone would be down in the visitor’s room, where employee meetings took place. Sebastian would have to work quickly, but this was the opportunity he was waiting for. 

It took a total of fifteen minutes to run to each room, pull out the explosives, and run the fuses to the back hallway, where he would place the detonator. Making sure not to wake the residents whose rooms housed the material served to slow Sebastian’s efforts. He glanced at the elderly, fast asleep in their beds despite the morning that was shining through their curtains. The youth felt worse over the deaths of his coworkers, in all honesty. They were nice, hardworking people. Despite his low position, Sebastian had built a rapport with the other employees of Rosenberg Manor. He knew about their families and personal lives, their interests, their dislikes. Hopefully they would only be injured. Well, the ones who stayed near the front of the building.

Sebastian connected all of the lengthy fuse wires to the detonator. He lit the fuse. The slow-burning material between the fuse and the primer charges ensured that he had about five minutes for a safe getaway. As he walked by the visitor’s room, a few nurses and such were standing up. It certainly wouldn’t do to have them discover the brightly colored wires littering the hallways too soon. It didn’t matter much if they saw them with a minute to spare—he doubted they would be able to disarm the device. Oh well. All he cared about was high-tailing it back to the park. 

Grabbing his hoodie, Sebastian quickly pulled it over his uniform polo, exiting from the side door and jogging down the street before turning and heading toward the park. If he hurried, he would make it just in time to watch the explosion with Jim.

This was probably the most exhilarating thing he’d ever done. The brisk morning air filled his lungs as Sebastian approached the bench where Jim was daintily perched, and he felt a rush like no other. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he returned to his seat next to Jim, attempting to catch his breath.

It was a tense moment waiting for the bombs to explode, but merely a moment nonetheless. Sebastian felt his stomach churl anxiously, hoping that the nurses hadn’t managed to somehow ruin his efforts. 

Jim inched closer on the bench, and the movement briefly distracted Sebastian from the booming noise of the explosion. He whipped his head around to see the building engulfed in a storm of fire and smoke, much larger than he imagined it would be. The way the fire and smoke billowed upward from the building as it collapsed, taking the walls of the adjacent buildings along with it. In fact, Sebastian was so entranced by the explosion that he failed to notice the commotion that had erupted all around them. 

Jim grabbed his hand and tugged Sebastian upward, running away from the park, just as the other bystanders were. Too dumbfounded to speak, the teen let himself be led away from the scene, listening to the shrieks and yells of terror rising around them. 

They rounded a corner, where the citizens of the street seemed unaware of the incident, although Sebastian was sure the noise could still have been heard. He glanced over his shoulder, verifying that Rosenberg Manor (what was left of it) could not be seen. Jim, still tightly gripping his hand, raised Sebastian’s arm to twirl underneath it. 

“That was fantastic!” Jim beamed up at Sebastian as the walked down the street. “I mean, I had my doubts, if we’re being honest, but you pulled it off! I could kiss you. As a matter of fact, I will!”

Almost toppling over as he was yanked into a nearby alleyway, Sebastian couldn’t stop grinning. The rush from the successful bombing was phenomenal, even if he was still trying to stomach the fact that they’d killed over a dozen innocent people. Still, he’d made Jim happy. The shorter boy was beaming with delight, and Sebastian wondered if he had ever seen the boy so truly elated. His thoughts were cut short as Jim roughly pressed his lips against Sebastian, walking him backward until he stood against a wall, their bodies flush together. 

“Can you imagine how we can use this to our advantage? This is leverage, Sebastian. Progress. You helped make that happen. We’ll have to get home and check the news coverage, then—“

The boy was interrupted as Sebastian latched his mouth onto Jim’s neck, stepping around and pinning Jim to the side of the building, reversing their position. He mouthed at the pale skin for a moment, before relenting. 

“Don’t talk,” Sebastian mumbled breathily against Jim’s collarbone, rolling his hips forward. He never did get the chance to fully regain his breath.

“Mm, won’t you feel that?” giggled Jim. Sebastian’s fingers tightened their grip around his waist. “Someone’s a bit excited.”

Sebastian grumbled something intelligible, moving up to suck along Jim’s jaw line. It was true, he very much was. The control he had, being in charge of the lives of the people in the nursing home, and making the decision to follow through, it was empowering. He found himself not only craving sex, but entitled to it. 

Beneath his firm hold, Jim craned his neck up, pressing his lips to Sebastian’s cheek. He pulled away. “Let’s take this back to mine, then.” Jim slipped out from underneath the larger teenager and headed back to the street. 

Sebastian followed.


End file.
